


A Lucky Coincidence

by LumosSootica



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Implied abuse, M/M, Slow Burn, Teenlock, canon typical drug use/violence etc, s4? don't know her, the real AU here is that they occasionally talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-11 15:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15318561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosSootica/pseuds/LumosSootica
Summary: The lesson to take from this is to always take the shortcut down the abandoned alleyway. You might meet the love of your life down there. Or you'll get mugged, but where's pessimism going to get you, John?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (notes at end of chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (end of chapter for notes)

The sun had been up for hours, creating a relentless ribbon of light across his face, sunlight forcing itself through the blinds with little to no regard to the time. Finally having enough, John groaned and rolled over to look at the clock. It was 10:30. With a muffled curse he pulled the duvet over his head. He didn’t even have to be up until 11. And it was _Saturday_.

Seeing as there was no one about to pester him for being indulgently lazy- Harry being away and his parents at work- he burrowed further beneath the duvet, away from the sun, and resolved to go back to sleep. The familiar silence of the house and the comfortable warmth of the spring morning soon lulled him back into a calm sleep.

* * *

 

The cold concrete had numbed half of his face and his muscles were stiff. He didn’t want to move. _That’s what you get for passing out in an abandoned alleyway, you idiot_. With a huff and, hauling himself into a sitting position, Sherlock leant against the nearest wall, mindlessly brushing gravel from his face with unsteady hands. Cracking his shoulders, he glanced up. By the looks of it it was about 11 o’clock… which made no sense.

It couldn’t be Saturday, he hadn’t even gotten home yet.

With a slightly more irritated huff he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying to remember what had led to him spending the night in… well, wherever he was. Nothing unusual had happened at college- just the usual spats with teachers and students, with most ending in him being sent out of lessons because _apparently_ bringing a teacher’s affair with the deputy head to light was ‘cruel’ and ‘uncalled for, what’s the matter with you’. In fact, the only thing that seemed out of routine was his run in with Anderson. Like an all too familiar punch to the gut it all came rushing back.

Groaning, he slid down the wall, head in hands. Anderson and his troupe of idiots. Of course. He’d clearly still not forgiven him for telling his girlfriend he was cheating on her, but had instead increased the brutality of his retaliation. At least this was new; he’d never managed to knock him out before.

As if on cue a splitting headache made a miraculous appearance, and only then did Sherlock begin to notice the angry bruises littering his arms and felt similar ones on his back. With a few careful prods to the face it was also clear he had a black eye forming, not to mention a probable concussion. Clearly not the best decision to remain sitting there feeling sorry for himself then. He heaved himself to a standing position, regretting it immediately as white lights began to pop in front of his eyes and all the pain flooded back in one huge wave. His knees buckled, and he found himself on the ground again.

This was going to take a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, so this is a rewrite (sort of) of an older fic I wrote in 2013/2014 and never finished. It's still up so if you recognise it, cool! I'm not stealing it, I just regretted orphaning it and leaving it without a conclusion. Because of when I wrote it some things are going to be different, like Sherl's parents, but most is in line with the show. 
> 
> If you haven't read the original, then please don't if you find it. There's a hefty amount of change gone into this version so there's really no point. It's also a bloody monstrosity. I've got most of the original chapters edited and a lot of unpublished ones written, so might publish the original ones in bulk.
> 
> I want to finish it this time, so if I'm ever gone for more than 2 months, and hold me to this, *give me hell in the comments and on my tumblr (lumosssootica)*
> 
> That said, enjoy!! :D comments are widely appreciated and are likely to get the next chapters edited/written quicker!! And please leave kudos, i crave validation


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I'm updating every 2 days at the mo, have a backlog of edited chapters)

His alarm cut through the silence of the house like a gun shot. John jumped out of bed, still half asleep, only to get a foot caught in his duvet and trip, landing spread-eagled on the floor with a thump. Tearing away the duvet, he pulled on some clothes and hastily grabbed his work apron before sprinting down the stairs and out of the front door, accompanied by an overwhelming surge of expletives as he chastised himself for running late. The nearest station was only about ten minutes’ walk away but, with no money on his Oyster, running the entire way was his only option. Rushing at full pelt down the road, keys between his teeth as he messily tried to tie his apron, he turned the corner and ran straight into someone, causing them to drop their shopping and sending the both of them sprawling.

“Oh fu- god, I’m so sorry!” he huffed, clutching at the stitch in his side.

The woman just glared at him and proceeded to gather everything back up so John hurriedly began sweeping the items back into the bags, anxious to get away. Fifteen minutes later he was running again, grimly aware there was little point now as he was horrifically late already. He wasn't very familiar with this particular part of London, the buildings around him created a disconcerting labyrinth until he eventually found himself at the end of a dark alley. It stretched far in front of him, filled with disconcerting shadows and a general air of foreboding he was keen to ignore. Despite the fact that even _thinking_ about going through felt like he was condemning himself to death, it seemed like a shortcut, so he began to jog through.

Near the middle of the path, however, he slowed to a walk as he spotted a figure hunched against the wall, head in hands. _Perfect_ , he cursed to himself, _now I’m going to get mugged_. He slowed down further, set on sneaking quietly past before safely legging it to the end of the alley, but as he neared the figure he saw that they were in no fit state to attack him. Bruises littered what skin was showing and their hair was sticking to their head due to what looked like a large gash stretching across their hairline, alarmingly visible even in the poor light. They were in a tattered uniform so could hardly have been too far off Johns age. Despite whatever earlier assumptions he’d had, John couldn't just leave them there. Anything could happen. Including him getting stabbed of course, but that was seeming less and less likely. And, he reminded himself as he hesitated, if he wanted to train as a doctor then leaving them be would be pretty hypocritical as well as generally horrific.

Kneeling, John gently nudged their shoulder. No response. He nudged them again, but still no response. It wasn’t looking good.

“Excuse me?” John said, whilst nudging the figure a third time.

This seemed to trigger the stranger, who sprang away from Johns touch instantly, head snapping round and eyes wide in panic.

Despite the darkness, John could clearly see his eyes, surveying John with uncomfortably intense scrutiny.

“Are you alright?” John asked, now feeling slightly awkward as he was surveyed, reminded of his bird’s nest of bed hair and haphazard clothing.

The boy shook his head as if to clear it and rubbed his eyes, providing an incredibly welcome lapse in the staring.

“I’m fine. It’s no concern of yours. You should really get going if you don’t want to any later for work than you already are,” the stranger replied offhandedly, voice oddly resentful for someone so clearly in need of help.

John blinked a few times in surprise. He wasn’t aware he’d written his predicament on his forehead that morning, but how else could this guy have known?

He’d apparently voiced these thoughts, as the stranger continued with a huff.

“Oh, come on, it’s not that difficult. You were going down this alleyway, which no one else has done all morning meaning it’s probably bad news, so you were clearly looking for a shortcut. You dressed in a hurry, including forgetting to tie your shoelaces, despite the fact you were running. And why would you ever wear an apron like _that_ for no reason?” he rattled off, crossing his arms across his chest and wincing visibly at the gesture.

John was taken-aback, suddenly struck with an odd urge to defend his crimson apron as he slumped to sit properly next the stranger, who cast him a confused glance, shuffled away, and continued,

“So really, there is no point in making yourself later than you already are. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I've got places to be.”

With that, he made to get up and leave but swayed on the spot and began to list severely to the left. John, who had recovered slightly from his surprise, leapt up and caught him before steadying him, hands on the taller boys’ shoulders. That wasn’t a good sign.

“I think you’ll find that if I really cared enough about work to leave you here then I would have ignored you and carried on,” John replied steadily, “and I’m not letting you walk off like this. You look like shit.”

The stranger cocked an eyebrow, mustering an impressive amount of snark for someone with an apparent concussion, before John caught what he’d said.

“Oh, Christ, sorry,” he laughed awkwardly, shaking his head and setting the stranger against the wall so he wouldn't fall over when he released him, “How long have you been here?”

“Since five yesterday,” the stranger replied, “I think.”

“Christ, ok,” John sighed, trying not to outwardly display his rocketing concern.

There was no way he could have been out that long without being, well, _dead_. He had heard of people falling asleep after being knocked out, but that tended to be when the person was beyond exhausted to begin with, which was a worrying thought in itself.

Looking about as he pondered what to do he could feel the stranger’s eyes boring into his skull, unwelcome as he tried to think of a way to help that would still get him to work as soon as possible. They remained like this for a few awkward moments before he finally thought of something. He looked up and the boy’s head snapped away, clearly not wanting to be caught staring.

“Let me call someone for you. I really can’t leave you like this, and I’m not going to let you walk off alone.”

Anger flashed briefly across the taller boy’s pale face, quickly replaced by annoyance.

“Fine. Call my brother,” he hissed, grabbing his phone from his pocket and holding it out.

“Password?” John asked, taking the phone.

“Apiology,” was the short reply. John allowed himself an amused smile- _Different,_ “Just text him, it’ll be quicker.”

John scrolled through the contacts, stopping when the stranger pointed out the one simply labelled 'Dickhead', and sent a quick text detailing the situation before handing back the phone.

“I’m going to stay with,” John stated, to which the stranger snorted indignantly, “You might have a concussion.”

“Oh, really?” the stranger deadpanned, raising a hand to his chest in mock shock.

The small burst of laughter this elicited was unexpected as John leant against the wall opposite, but they were soon standing in silence. It didn’t take long before the click of shoes could be heard approaching them, accompanied by an annoyed huff from another stranger. He could barely see the man in the dim light. John went to leave immediately, wanting to avoid awkward conversation, but thought better of it after taking a few steps.

The strangers had also already made their leave, but John called after them.

“You might want to go to A&E, just to make sure yeah?” his stranger didn’t react, but who must have been the brother nodded stiffly at him, “And, uh, hope you’re alright soon!”

With that he waved a harried goodbye before rushing off in the opposite direction.

It only occurred to him when he reached work an hour later that he'd never even asked the strangers name.

* * *

 

With each click of those familiar shoes Sherlock gave an irrepressible wince. His headache was still throbbing but he could now stand up without much of a problem. The other teenager had seen to that. He'd run off almost as soon as Mycroft appeared, and Sherlock couldn’t blame him- he’d have followed if he was able to move more than three feet without collapsing. His brother had now reached him, leaning on that bloody umbrella he’d taken to carrying around for no reason, and was wearing an exasperated expression to rival all exasperated expressions on his face.

“Really, Sherlock,” he sighed, “You should have known better than to let this happen again. You're lucky that there was someone around to help.”

He left a gap, staring slightly as he waited for his younger brother to recount the event. When no reply came however, Mycroft sighed again and helped support his brother to the car waiting for them. He forced himself to ignore the rising feeling of helplessness as he allowed himself to be supported, firmly reminding himself it was simply because he was likely to pass out again if he tried to make it away on his own.

Once in the car he collapsed across the back seats and screwed his eyes closed. The lights flashing in front of them were making his headache worse. He heard Mycroft take the seat opposite and the car pulled away, their silence continuing until it was clearly beginning to crush Mycroft with unanswered questions. Sherlock was having none of it though, interrupting his brother as he began to speak.

“I’m not going to A&E,” he stated, “I’m fine.”

“I thought as much,” Mycroft replied with a glare, “But it might be a good idea this time.”

“No.”

If Mycroft wanted to throw himself across the car and throttle him he hid it very well, simply straightening his tie in exasperation instead. Sherlock smirked into the seat as silence descended again, but it didn’t last as mercifully long this time.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened? I can’t read your mind Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. _Trust Mycroft to stick his nose in_.

Deciding he clearly couldn’t avoid the question forever, he pulled himself into a sitting position and glared at his brother.

“I am perfectly aware of that, and it doesn’t matter what happened. Not to you anyway.”

He leant against the cold window and closed his eyes again, the chill of the glass grounding him as his black eye continued to ache. He didn’t want to talk about this now. But Mycroft pressed on.

“I really need to know what happened; I don’t care if you don’t want to tell me. How am I supposed to come up with a suitable lie for our parents if I don’t know myself?”

Sherlock could hear the sneer in his voice and groaned. He hadn’t thought about his parents.

“Anderson,” he mumbled into the window.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me,” he spat, turning to face his brother with more force than intended, making his head spin.

Mycroft shook his head and turned to stare out of the window. Sherlock could clearly see the disappointment written all over his face which he was trying to unsuccessfully hide, causing an unexpected wave of guilt. They were both as sick of this as each other.

“You really need to keep away from him, Sherlock. I thought you'd have learned, for god’s sake,” he turned back to face his younger brother, “You need to stop this. Don’t provoke him _. Ignore_ him.”

“It’s kind of hard to ignore him when he’s trying to kick my head in,” Sherlock almost shouted, showing remarkable restraint in his books.

“But it was you who provoked him! This is how it always happens, Sherlock, you make some snide comment and end up alone and bloody in some remote corner of London!” Mycroft shouted back, showing less restraint as rage broke through the usual calm demeanour before he composed himself and continued at normal volume “I do worry about you. Anything could happen if you don’t stop this idiocy.”

He wasn’t even trying to hide the disappointment this time and Sherlock clenched his jaw before he could say anything else, instead sniffing loudly and pointedly directing his gaze back through the window. He was right, as always. He heard Mycroft shift, in what he’d say was discomfort if it was anyone but his brother sitting opposite.

“Do you want to go back to my house to clean yourself up?” Mycroft continued more calmly, changing the subject, “You know what they’d say if they saw you like this.”

“No. I just want to go home.”

“Are you sure?”

At this, Sherlock just raised his ice-cold gaze to meet his brother’s and Mycroft turned away.

“As you wish.”


	3. Chapter 3

The weekend had passed by too quickly for John. In the blink of an eye his two days off had gone and he was trudging wearily through the school gates, stifling a yawn and harbouring a mountain of unfinished work. He'd run into a group of friends and gone for a walk last night instead of working. Well. Walk wasn’t really the right word. More like a drunken stumble. Greg had somehow fallen into a bin and it had taken forever to get him out.

The bell sliced through the misty morning air and he headed off to his first class. Being late _and_ not having his work wasn’t really something he wanted to be yelled at for.

-

Biology always seemed to drag on for years, with Mr Kennan rambling on about something to do with enzymes this time around and failing to notice that half his class was asleep or alarmingly close to it. John feared he’d have joined them if Molly hadn't been so distractingly twitchy. Sitting next to her it was impossible not to notice her constant fiddling with a tired looking envelope he felt incredibly sorry for, and the mix of either giddy smiling or furious blushing every time he asked her about it was enough to keep him distracted with light-hearted teasing. When the bell rung- and while everyone was busy trying to wake themselves up- John raced from the classroom and straight to the library to get some revision done, hoping to get some actual work done before their upcoming exams.

The library was still fairly empty, unoccupied desks and computers littered between towering bookcases, tired students milling amongst them and pretending to be productive. He picked a secluded corner furthest from the door before taking out his textbook, grimly acknowledging that the day was going to get no more interesting than half-arsed revision on his part and half-arsed attempts at lessons on his teachers’. Therefore, he barely acknowledged the taller boy walking his way until he’d had passed by, mumbling bitterly about the fact John had taken his usual desk. He was about to tell whoever it was to kindly _fuck off_ , but as John’s head snapped up and he recognised a mop of unruly hair and a painful looking black eye, his voice just came out as a croak. It appeared that the stranger recognised him too, because his face somehow went a shade paler, eyes wide as he hurried off around the next bookcase. John sprang up from the desk and hurried after him, just in time to see him disappear into the corridor outside. How had he never noticed the boy before? He was definitely notable, being impossibly gangly with a ridiculous set of cheekbones, but John was _certain_ he had never seen him before. Unexpected as the encounter was, he didn’t want to chase him, only having wanted to check his well-being. If he’d manged to run away then he was probably fine, so John just shuffled back to his desk to reluctantly continue with his revision, willing himself to put the mysterious teen from his mind.

* * *

 

Sherlock weaved as fast as he could through the corridors, putting as much distance between himself and the library as possible without leaving the grounds altogether. What the hell the other teen was doing _in his bloody college_  of all places was lost on him, because he’d certainly never noticed him before, and that was impossible in itself-

He slowed when nearing his locker as it became obvious he wasn’t being followed, distractedly clutching at his arm and worrying a loose thread on his jumper as he frantically tried to rationalise. Unfortunately, calming down was out of the question as a thousand scenarios where he was quizzed about his predicament raced through his head, each more unrealistically cruel than the last until he reached his locker.

Leaning back against the cool metal, he sank to the floor. The corridor was empty, leaving him free to fret in peace as he brought his knees sharply up to his chest & began to drum his fingers methodically on the laminate floor. This worked to organise his thoughts for a few precious seconds before he noticed the uneven door behind him. It had been opened.

“Probably someone putting mould in again, trying to be clever,” he muttered, standing to open it-but instead of something unpleasant, a tired envelope fluttered out and landed at his feet.

Cautiously picking it up, he turned it over in his hands. Nothing suspicious about it. Just an ordinary envelope. _But still not to be trusted,_ he reminded himself with a grimace. The colour and penmanship on the envelope clearly stated it as from a girl and the careful way his name had been written on the front implied a great deal of sentiment was attached. There were only really two options: it was a love letter or something, which he’d never actually received so wouldn’t recognise anyway, or it was a meticulously planned practical joke. He highly suspected the latter. Carefully prising it open, however, he was surprised. It was indeed some kind of love letter.

It read:

_Hi Sherlock!_

He forcibly stopped himself from tearing it in half immediately. It was off to a bad start.

_You've probably never noticed me, but I just wanted to write you this anyway. We had a few lessons together last year. You insulted the teachers a lot. It was quite funny really, some of them deserved it._

_Anyway, sorry, back to the point._

_I just wanted to say that I like you, even if a few people don’t. I know that’s really cheesy, but I couldn’t think of another way to word it. You always seem so above it all, all the rumours about you I mean. I never believed any of them (actually tried to stop a few, but I think I made it worse. Sorry). But you seemed upset last Monday in the library, when you thought no one was watching. I'm sure whatever it is, it’ll pass at some point, and I know you'd hate it but I'm always about if you need anyone to talk to._

_Hope you're alright now._

_I know you’ll figure out who gave you this if you want to, but if you do, please don’t mention it to anyone. It’d be embarrassing. So anyway, good luck in your exams (not that you really need it!) and I hope you’re doing ok!_

_MH x_

_PS- when you do figure this out, do you want to get coffee? ;)_

Sherlock lowered the letter. The message, despite how awkward, fragmented, confusing and irritatingly upbeat it was, had actually cheered him up slightly. Any news that he had someone on his side was welcome- even if they were someone fond of handwritten emoticons. However, the identity of this person was irking him. The only MH he knew was his brother, and that would be horribly disturbing. Taking out his phone and with a few quick clicks he was going through his year’s registers after an MH. There was only one name he even vaguely recognised.

Molly Hooper.

She’d been the small, fidgety girl with the obnoxiously bright jumpers in most of his science classes. Having moved up to study year 12 science halfway through last year it made sense that he’d forgotten her- she would obviously be in none of his classes this year unless he was moved up again. Quickly deciding against ever bringing this up for fear of embarrassing both of them and inwardly declining the offer of coffee, he thought back to last Monday. He hadn’t been upset, or at least he’d thought not at the time, he’d just been caught up in the events of the previous evening. He’d dislocated a shoulder after scaling a fence to avoid a few boys from his year who would no doubt have given him a black eye to rival his current one. And, of course, his family had yet again blamed him for their actions, again told him that he had provoked them and that he should know better. That had probably been the cause of the upset. Students were beginning to spill into the hallway, wandering without purpose and chatting loudly enough for the world to hear so Sherlock took this as his cue to move, quiet reprieve over. Tucking the letter carefully into his shirt pocket, he hurried to his next class.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The week passed by in a blur of ceaseless revision and pointless essays and before he knew it it was Friday again. Throughout the week, John had been unable to get the stranger out of his mind and had suffered because of it- he’d gotten a detention after not paying attention in Chemistry and had ended up being hit around the head with a textbook to bring him back into focus. But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stop thinking. It hadn’t exactly helped that, now he’d noticed him once, they were running into each other everywhere. Between classes, at the gates, in the library; they’d see each other everywhere. However, he had the distinct impression that he was being poorly avoided. Once, upon entering the canteen, he’d spotted the stranger tipping his entire uneaten meal into the bin before making his escape.

_Odd._

-

That afternoon, John was again sitting in Mr Kennan’s Biology class, head threatening to hit the desk at any moment when a sudden slam of a door echoed across the room. Shouting almost immediately followed, exploding from the classroom opposite and, to Johns surprise, a familiar figure stormed down the hall, turning back on his heel to hurl some horrific insults through the open door before stalking away. From his seat by the door, John clearly saw him head in the direction of the headmaster’s office.

“Class!”

John almost fell from his seat at the interruption, as both he and Molly had desperately been trying to keep watch of the situation by trying to phase through the wall into the corridor. Mr Kennan was yelling at them, clearly peeved at the fact that this had captured everyone’s attention, when he could never hold it for more than ten seconds, but John kept watching until the stranger had rounded the corner and disappeared.

Begrudgingly turning back to his textbook, he wondered what the hell had happened this time.

* * *

 

After nearly two hours of being shouted at by the head, the door slammed at his back and he was unceremoniously dismissed. The argument was hardly _his_ fault, he would _never_ have said anything about that idiotic teacher failing to cover up his failing diet if he hadn’t been so rude in calling out his 12 late essays. Apparently, that wasn’t a good enough excuse. The head had ‘reached his wits end’ and was ‘sick of all this entitled nonsense’ and had ended the shouting match with the usual threat of moving him up a year just to get rid of him faster, but he never followed through on any of his threats. Unfortunately, however, he _had_ phoned his parents to report the incident. Sherlock had dared to hope that they would have gotten used to his outbursts by now but, based on the livid silence on the other end of the phone, they obviously hadn’t.

Trudging back to his locker, the corridors were now long empty but lacking their usual comfort thanks to the looming fact that he would have to go home. Reflecting on what had happened last time they’d phoned his parents, he was finding it increasingly difficult to hold himself steady. It had taken almost a month for them to put it behind them, and during that time, they had abandoned him to Mycroft. He’d been fortunate enough to have Mycroft’s London home to stay at, but with his brother now living out of London, he didn't know what he would do this time. Despite forcefully reminding himself that that was the worst-case scenario, it might not come to that, he was finding it increasingly difficult to cast the idea from his mind.

-

He dragged the walk home out as long as humanly possible. He could have easily gotten the train and been home within ten minutes, but he needed to think and was in no hurry whatsoever. Coat billowing around his knees as he walked, the cold wind biting at his face and hands, he slowed his pace even further. It may have been March, but it was still surprisingly wintry. His route took him past various coffee shops and he thought back on Molly’s note, a small smile breaking through as he nipped into one of the closest shops to warm up. It was loud, the clinking of mugs mingling with the mindless chatter of the customers, consisting entirely of other students and old people, all complaining. There was a particularly raucous gaggle of girls about his age perched at the window seats, carbon copies of each other as they sat, legs crossed, giggling incessantly and attempting to engage the long-suffering barista serving them. He recognised one of them, Irene, a daughter to a family friend, and she waved before approaching him, leaning nonchalantly against the counter as he ordered.

“Hello stranger,” she smirked, “It’s been an age.”

“Evening,” he responded, tone weary.

“Ooh, that’s not good,” she tipped back on her heels, smirk diminished, “something wrong love?”

With a bitter smile he thanked the barista and collected his coffee, giving him a moment to gather a convincing lie. Not that it’d matter, she’d always been brilliant at seeing through that. The only free seat was at the table with Irene’s friends, but she wasn’t having that and scared a few year 7s from a twin table near the door, taking a seat and patting the other for him to sit.

“So,” she asked, leaning back in her chair. With her all black ensemble, pristine turtleneck tucked into prim pinstriped trousers, and immaculately curled hair, she was acting like the sibling he’d trade Mycroft for in a heartbeat.

“You look nice today, done something with your-” he acted out curling long hair, but she drummed her knuckles impatiently between them, “How about... we talk about you?”

“So the usual,” she grimaced, ignoring his question and answering her own. A rare concern painted her face, immaculate eyebrows knitting together momentarily before she gave a blinding smile, “Sure, let’s talk about me.”

It was a shorter conversation than usual, Irene’s friends clamouring for her to go back, but she expertly ignored them and talked animatedly about the newest girl she’d been talking to and upcoming exams, content with him contributing nothing but smirks and the occasional nod. But in no time her friends were packing to go, Sherlock had finished his coffee, ordered another to go, and they both stood to leave. Going to stand next to him, concern set firmly back on her brow, she looked him quickly up and down before cupping his face in her hands.

“You’re always welcome to stop with me,” she said, patting his face lightly.

“Thank you,” he replied as she turned to follow her friends, knowing he wasn’t really. The Adlers were family friends before they were ever his.

-

He reached the door of his house over an hour later, the streetlamps just beginning to spark into life as night crept in. The lights were glaring from inside. He clutched at his empty coffee cup, digging his fingers into it as he went up the too-few steps to the door. His parents would be waiting in the study, as they always were when this happened. He could recite the entire conversation on the spot that very second if he really wanted to, as it always started in the same calm tone of disappointment but would no doubt escalate into a shouting match until… well, that usually depended on who shouted loudest. He took a deep breath and, unlocking the door, stepped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very brief Irene cameo because (she will be in it a lot more if you're concerned with how minor this appearance is)


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a hectic weekend, spent mostly not doing college work, so John turned up on Monday morning dreading falling asleep in his first lesson. But, upon entering biology, he was surprised to see a familiar figure. Towering over their teacher, and with an almost comic expression of unadulterated hatred mixed with extreme awkwardness plastered across his face, his stranger stood frozen at the front of the room. He’d crossed his arms tightly across his chest and was shuffling his feet, avoiding eye contact as he stared into space, blind to the various glares directed his way. John reluctantly made his way to his desk and continued to stare.

“Right, class,” Mr Kennan announced, making the awkward teen wince, “We have a new member joining us. He was moved here from studying year 12 biology so will need someone to help copy up notes and explain how we run this class.”

He cast his gaze around the room, looking for a volunteer. He could have sworn he saw Molly raise her hand from beside him, before rather forcefully folding back in on herself as she saw no one else had budged. At about the same moment, his eyes landed on John.

“Mr Watson, you usually pay attention. Move to the desk at the back please. You can spend this lesson and the next few going through everything together.”

But John wasn’t listening. He was staring at the taller teen, who was now finally staring back at him with a look of pure horror on his face. Just why was a mystery, all he’d done was stop to try and help him, he hadn’t exactly done anything wrong. Had he? But he put these thoughts aside and quickly headed to the back, followed begrudgingly by his stranger.

The lesson started and, as usual, almost the entire class was napping within ten minutes. John kept glancing at the boy next to him, who was now staring at the desk, eyes wide and pointedly refusing to look at him. Or say anything. He looked a little like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Nearly halfway through the lesson, John had had enough.

“Hi,” he said brightly, unsure of what to do so offering a handshake. Better to pretend nothing had happened and start from scratch, “John Watson, nice to meet you.”

He waited a few seconds whilst his words seemed to sink in. The stranger glanced up at him, then looked to his hand held feebly between them. The ghost of the condescending look from the alleyway crossed his face before he half-heartedly shook his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he stated, immediately dropping his gaze back to the desk.

“Sorry?”

“My name,” the boy sighed. From annoyance or embarrassment, he wasn’t sure.

“Oh.”  _ Strange. _

“Yes, I know it’s strange,” Sherlock huffed, seemingly reading his thoughts again and crossing his arms.

“No! It’s a great name!” John replied hurriedly.

And there was the condescending look.

“Sorry,” John spluttered “Yeah, no, I didn’t mean that to sound weird. You just looked a bit…”

Sherlock was clearly adept at looking phenomenally disappointed in people he didn’t know, because he was doing a tremendous job as John tried to salvage the little dignity he had remaining.

“It’s nice to finally put a name to the face?” John managed after a few seconds.

If Sherlocks eyebrows travelled any further up his forehead they were in danger of being lost in his hair, so John just stopped talking. After a few seconds, he was unsurprised to hear Sherlock let out a sigh. He  _ was _ surprised when he actually started talking.

“So, can we get on with this then? I’ve learnt it all already, but if I have to copy up notes I’d like to get it done sooner rather than later.”

The rest of the lesson passed in tense silence, John spending most of it on his phone, the occasional correction of Sherlock’s notes where he’d read his awful handwriting wrong the only real interactions. However, five minutes from the bell, Sherlock turned to collect his bag, exposing the right side of his neck in the process as his shirt collar slipped. John’s breath caught involuntarily as he noticed a prominent welt stretching just below his jaw, angrily red against the otherwise pale skin. It was hard to miss, and difficult to ignore, meaning he didn’t glance away in time before Sherlock caught him staring. Eyes widening in panic he tugged his collar back up as far as it would go, gaze snapping hurriedly to the front as his shoulders tensed, and he began shakily tugging at the sleeve of his jumper. 

John was speechless. It had barely been two weeks since he’d found him in that alleyway and something else had already happened. He was desperate not to pry, about this or about the incident that had led to their meeting, but it was becoming an increasingly difficult issue to ignore. This was all clearly deliberate. These were clearly all very  _ very _ deliberate injuries and there was apparently nothing being done about it. He came to the sudden realisation that he would have to ask. Whether he wanted to or not, whether Sherlock even wanted to talk to him or not, he would have to ask what was going on so he wouldn’t end up finding him beaten to hell in some other alleyway. He was almost glad of the postponement of these questions when Sherlock was out of the room before the bell stopped ringing.

* * *

 

_ Why? _  The word buzzed endlessly around Sherlock’s head, mocking him _. Why him? _

Sherlock really didn't care, he really, truly  _ did not care _ what others thought of him, but John made him feel vulnerable. He’d seen him at one of his lowest points, something precious few people ever had, and it was  _ sickening _ . He could tell anyone. A friend, a teacher, the head, he could tell  _ anyone _ , and if he did then that was it. His parents would never let it go. He didn’t know what Mycroft had told them, but they had no clue about what had happened with Anderson, and thank god they didn’t. The thought of them brought a dull sting back to his jaw and he hitched his collar up further, pushing his way quickly through the crowds to the library where he settled at his desk near the back. A few minutes passed with his head buried in a chemical engineering book, fingers drumming frantically on the desk as he failed to take in the words he was reading, when he heard careful footsteps approaching. He glanced up and, as he had suspected, John was hovering about five feet away. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, halting his drumming to poorly disguise his uneasiness. 

“Listen,” John stated, taking a step forward and clenching a fist in an impressively unthreatening manner, “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, I was only trying to help, but you’ve been avoiding me.”

Some of the shock must have registered on Sherlock’s face as John rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I’ve noticed, I’m not an idiot. I just wanted to say that I won’t say anything. Not unless you want to, I’m not a dick, I wouldn’t go behind your back. It’s clearly something you don’t want people finding out about, so I’m guessing that's what this is about.”

With that he took a step back, rocking back on his heels and looking anywhere but at Sherlock. They were clearly finding this as uncomfortable as each other. There was little he could do about it. John knew, and if he knew then other people would end up knowing, regardless of what he was assuring him. There was always a way these things came out, so he was left with little choice but to strike up a bargain.  

“If you don’t tell anyone about that…  _ incident _ ,” Sherlock said calmly, “then I won’t tell anyone about your sister.”

Sherlock had to suppress a grimace as the familiar shock registered on John’s face. There was no satisfaction as he watched him trying to decide on the best action to take. The choices usually involved either punching his head in right now, or waiting until later. John edged forward.  _ Odd _ , Sherlock had figured he was the type to choose the latter.

“How… What…” John trailed off, looking back at him with barely concealed awe.

This threw him slightly. Nobody had ever really bothered to ask, even in such a ridiculously fragmented way, about his methods. They usually just exploded into a colourful range of expletives.

“It’s obvious, really,” Sherlock replied, gaining confidence as John again took a step closer, “You were texting in biology and your phone has scratches around the charger socket, so has been owned by someone with a drinking problem. When trying to plug the phone in, the socket has been missed repeatedly as the user was drunk. You and your band of friends recently passed by my house and you were the soberest despite a clear pack mentality, so it’s not originally yours. But who would give you a phone that expensive? A family member or significant other. The last can be cancelled out because you’re, what, 18, and who has enough money to pay for a phone like that simply for a college relationship? So, family. There are chips of nail varnish around the power button which you’ve been unable to get off, so probably sister as you wouldn’t really take your mums phone. Your sister has a drinking problem and you don’t want anyone to know about it- because children can be horrid, gossip sells, and why would you?”

Awed silence followed his small speech and John looked amazed.

“That was,” he muttered, finally gaining the ability to speak again as he broke into a grin, “That was amazing! A bit creepy, I guess, but still amazing!”

Sherlock was floored, just about managing to shoot a quick smile his way before the shocked silence they shared stretched into uncomfortably long minutes. 

This had never happened. He was glad he didn’t have to come up with a response as John suddenly seemed to remember Sherlock’s proposal of a deal and offered his hand for the second time that day.

“Alright, I can deal with that,” he grinned.

In his state of shock, Sherlock took his hand too eagerly for his liking, but John clearly hadn’t noticed as they were distracted by the bell. Still smiling, John bid a quick farewell, leaving Sherlock both in shock and strangely confused, but the happiest he had been for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

After lessons, John decided to take the long way home. It was cold, but he had no particular desire to head home and find Harry drunk. He had no doubt that that was  _ exactly _ what he’d find. She’d been getting worse for a while now, but splitting up with Clara had been the last straw in the whiskey-soaked metaphorical haystack, and dealing with her was proving as exhausting as it was inconvenient. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice another boy heading straight for him until he pushed past, knocking John’s bag to the floor and blocking his way. John looked up, a particularly unflattering comment about to roll off his tongue, but he stopped it quickly. This other boy was at least a foot taller than him, gangly as anything and greasy as chip paper, glaring with an impressive amount of focus considering he had the look of someone with a bit too much empty space between the ears.

“Hi John,” he spoke smoothly, a nasty sneer playing at his mouth.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” John asked, barely masking his irritation.

“Philip Anderson. We’re in the same physics class.”

_ Oh. The idiot who pays more attention to the girls at the front than the actual lesson. _

“Oh right. I know you, yeah,” John sighed, trying to decide whether shoving past or waiting this out was the better option.

He did not have time for whatever this was.

“Saw you in the library today.”

John seriously doubted this. He looked like he'd never entered a library in his life.

“You were talking to the freak.”

Ok, he was  _ definitely _ going to wait it out. He couldn’t possibly mean Sherlock.

“You don’t mean Sherlock?”

Anderson visibly bristled at the name, a dark expression crossing his face, doing very little to improve John’s view of him. Despite having few interactions, he’d found very few reasons for Sherlock to be referred to as such. A bit odd, sure, but not a  _ freak _ .

“Yeah, the freak,” Anderson continued, the sneer now long gone, a livid expression replacing it, “and it’d do you good to stay away from him.”

“And why’s that?” John asked tightly.

Anderson didn’t look taken-aback by Johns tone at all, but carried on.

“He's… difficult. Tends to find himself in the middle of incidents he can’t handle.”

John hadn’t missed the way Anderson had been repeatedly twitching his hand throughout the conversation, in what he assumed was some attempt to look threatening, but only now did he put two and two together.

“It was you?” he blurted out before he could stop himself, flash of anger at the realisation pushing him on, “You're the twat who left him in that alley?”

Anderson suddenly seemed to snap, now looking at John with some of the most concentrated hatred he’d ever been subject to. If looks could kill, and if said look wasn’t currently plastered on a reedy bully with a pushy sense of superiority, then... he’d be  _ somewhat _ intimidated. But it was, and he wasn’t, so John just clenched a fist in turn as Anderson fished about for more threats. 

“If you ever tell  _ anyone _ about that,” he finally hissed, “and especially someone from here, then you’ll end up the same way.”

To illustrate his point, he gave John a hard shove to the chest, clearly not to the anticipated result as John didn't budge, barely capping his quickly rising anger as Anderson continued not to leave.

“Sure I will,” John scoffed, “And you really think I won’t tell anyone?” 

John regretted it the second the words were out of his mouth, and not because Anderson looked as if he was ready to punch his teeth in. He’d sworn he wouldn’t say anything. He’d promised… but he also hadn’t even known Sherlock’s name until that day? Why the hell was he suddenly sticking up for him and putting himself in the line of, admittedly weak, fire?

Before John could break from his musings, however, Anderson had put all his weight into a shove at John's chest which sent him staggering backwards. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t then immediately tripped over the bag he’d dropped, sending himself sprawling onto the cold floor.

“Just stay out of it,” Anderson hissed in a last-ditch effort to appear menacing before he skulked off, giving John a swift kick to the shin for good measure.

John remained sitting for a few moments, equally stunned and embarrassed. What the hell had Sherlock even done to earn him this sort of treatment? He hardly had time to come to an answer before there were hurried footsteps from behind him and someone was frantically yanking him back to his feet.

“Christ, are you alright John?”

It was Molly, practically glowing with concern as she stooped to grab his bag. He was just glad to see a friendly face.

“I’m fine,” he breathed back.

It looked like she was going to ask more, but he quickly interrupted her.

“Hey, we’ve got that biology project due in soon haven’t we? Did you want to come round mine and make a start on it?”

She smiled, more than a hint of suspicion behind it before agreeing, and they started for home, John still transfixed on Sherlock no matter how hard he tried to push his endless questions aside.


	7. Chapter 7

The door slammed behind him, the force of it sending him stumbling into the quiet road. The irate shivering failed to recede as he was left standing there, too jittery to think straight, breath forming clouds in the cold. A nearby streetlamp cast an eerie glow on the pristine houses surrounding him, dark windows staring at him accusingly as if he was the one in the wrong. However, the backpack digging heavily into his shoulders assured him that it was real this time. With a deep breath, and trying desperately to shake the argument from his head, he set off towards the nearest tube station, paper-thin determination wavering as the wind picked up. 

Granted, trudging through the middle of London in the dark wasn’t his best option, but the warm light and laughter spilling from all-night cafes and bars he passed were a welcome presence, a slim reminder that it was a  _ better _ option. The trek to the station helped too, familiar streets and houses an incredibly welcome distraction against the cold trying to dig its way in from the inside and out. Once on the train itself though, after rushing through the eerily empty station onto an equally empty train, the distractions were gone and he was left with a problem he had no idea how to fix.

He’d never actually wanted this to happen. Despite the constant criticism, overall bitterness, and frequent violent fallings-out, he’d never thought they’d go this far. He’d finally had enough that day, hadn’t wanted to deal with the argument like he really should have, but being late home  _ wasn’t _ a reason to get angry. He placed his bag on the seat next to him as the train pulled away, rubbing distractedly at the new mark appearing just below his eye. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t bruise. The shouting had erupted much faster than usual, catching him off guard and he’d found himself threatening to leave, not thinking about how literally they’d take it. He just hoped he’d picked up everything he needed to scrape by until Mycroft intervened. A drunk couple stumbled into his car then, swinging from the handrails and talking as if he couldn’t hear, so he grabbed his bag and made an escape as the doors began to close.

He didn’t linger on the platform, rushing above ground to find somewhere to gather himself, but found the minute stalls littering the station closed and staff irritatingly absent. In fact, the only other sign of life he could see was a bedraggled boy about his age passed out on a bench in front of the darkened Starbucks, holding a lit cigarette which threatened to set his sleeve ablaze.

Sherlock eyed him warily before taking the opposite bench, pulling his phone from his pocket. There were a surprising 18 missed calls. One from his father, three from his mother and fourteen from Mycroft. Irene hadn’t even answered his texts. Grimacing, he put the phone back. If he’d wanted to, Mycroft would have done more than just call him by now, so Sherlock pulled his legs up onto the bench and settled down for a very chilly night. 

Unfortunately, barely five minutes passed by in the peaceful lethargy of late evening before he was startled as the youth opposite woke with a screech.

“Jesus FUCK,” he yelled, suddenly very much awake as he flung the still smouldering end of his cigarette in Sherlocks direction, shaking his singed sleeve like it was actually on fire, “You bastard, oh  _ fuck _ .”

Now he was awake and cursing to high heaven, Sherlock got a read on him before he could stop himself.  _ Gap year, only child, lives alone, and incredibly intoxicated _ . So not someone he wanted to be around at that moment. Drunk meant chatty, and chatty meant  _ no sleep _ . However, luck really wasn’t on his side that evening as the other teen noticed his staring.

“What you looking at mate?” he grumbled, unwisely taking out another cigarette.

Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with physically fleeing the station so resigned himself to hell.

“Nothing,” he replied, “You alright?”

The other teen smirked.

“Yeah, just a bit of an idiot,” he held up his blistering hand with a smirk before grimacing, “Got a light? Think I dropped mine.”

Sherlock immediately fished a lighter from his bag and threw it over, getting a lopsided grin in return.

“Cheers,” the guy muttered, lighting up before taking out another and gesturing at him with it.

With a sinking feeling Sherlock realised he’d left his own cigarettes on his desk, completely overlooking them in his rush to escape, so gave a grateful nod. Instead of flicking it across the space as he’d expected, the other teen made his way over, swaying slightly as he plonked himself next to Sherlocks bag, shoving the lighter and cigarette into his hands.

“Thank you,” Sherlock grumbled, shuffling away up the bench.

“So, where you off to this late?” the guy asked, ignoring his awkwardness. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” he quipped back.

The guy chuckled slightly, slapping an unwanted hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to tell me, just curious mate,” he chuckled, “but it’s like midnight and you look like you’re barely out of school.”

Sherlock shuffled further up the bench.

“And I’m not heading anywhere,” he continued obliviously, “seeing as you asked. Got nowhere to be.”

“I didn’t actually ask,” Sherlock glanced over, taking in a last piece of information, “And sympathies about your girlfriend.”

The guy sputtered out smoke like a cracked chimney at that, facing him wide-eyed and comically slack jawed. The cigarette was getting unnervingly close to burning his jacket again after they’d sat in silence for a good number of uncomfortable seconds, so Sherlock helpfully pointed it out. The guy didn’t move.

“Holy shit,” he said, running a hand through his hair, which Sherlock now realised was going pre-maturely grey around the ears, “How? What, yeah, how’d you know about that?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

“ _ Holy shit _ ,” he repeated, this time with a ghost of a grin, taking Sherlock’s hint and extinguishing his cigarette, “You have to teach me how to do that.”

“No.”

A full-fledged grin made its home on his face then, and Sherlock deeply regretted not fleeing the station.

“Greg Lestrade,” the guy stated suddenly, holding out a hand, “Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes minutely. He’d never get out of there.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he grumbled back, hastily shaking the proffered hand.

“Huh. Strange,” he mused before snorting, “Interesting though. Try being stuck with a name like  _ Greg _ .”

“I’ve already forgotten it,” Sherlock deadpanned, completely serious even if the guy seemed to find it funny.

With that they fell into a companionable silence, Sherlock puffing away absentmindedly on his cigarette and trying to ignore the cold clawing under his skin, and the Graham person trying and failing to stay awake as he lit up again. Eventually, and after a good half hour of Graham shuffling irritatingly about to keep warm, Sherlock couldn’t stand the company anymore.

“I don’t want to sound rude,” Sherlock said, pulling his bag back onto his shoulder- there would be a more comfortable bench somewhere out there, “But don’t you have somewhere… less cold you can be? You’ve been shivering for longer than we were talking. It’s irritating, and I want to get some sleep.”

“What, here?” Graham yawned, “You’re sleeping here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as his question was ignored.

“Yes?”

“But,” Greg stared him up and down, no doubt taking in his suit and coat get-up, “you don’t- you don’t look-”

“There’s probably a reason for that,” he drawled, suddenly horrifically uncomfortable.

“Right,” Graham replied carefully, and the cogs spinning in his brain were almost audible as he no doubt connected the bag and the bruise, “ _ Oh _ , right.”

“Yes, so would you kindly-” Sherlock made a sweeping motion with his hands, avoiding eye contact like the plague.

He wasn’t sure how much clearer he could be without telling Graham to just  _ fuck off _ , but thankfully he seemed to get the idea and stood up. Sherlock immediately kicked his feet up onto the previously occupied half of the bench in case Graham changed his mind. But Graham didn’t seem interested in sitting back down, instead hovering about, running a hand roughly through his hair and staring at his feet like they’d tell him what to do.

“Oh, for god’s sake, spit it out,” Sherlock muttered.

“Well, if you were looking for a place to say-”

“Christ, I am  _ not _ staying with you.”

“No!” Graham near shouted, before laughing awkwardly, “No. But I have a family friend looking to rent out a flat like 15 minutes’ walk from here. She’d probably be happy to let you stay a night or two while you sort yourself out.”

There were enough negative consequences to blind him, but at that exact moment the breeze from another train pulling in on the platform below blustered through the station, whipping around his ankles and causing further chills. He could overlook them. Any danger would be less cold at least. Graham was still ghosting the station, now sending a flurry of texts, no doubt to this landlady he’d mentioned. Looked like he didn’t have a choice anyway.

“That would be great,” Sherlock mumbled, standing swiftly and making his way onto the street, Graham rushing after him with a relieved sigh, “…thank you.”

“No worries mate!” he grinned, “Just checked, you’re fine to stay… granted she likes you obviously.” 

“Great.”  _ No, no not great at all. _

“Oh, and she’s put the kettle on, so we need to be quick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got very very limited wifi at the mo, and im using my phone to post this so if theres anything wrong please be gentle


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year x

John was worried. Sherlock hadn’t shown up in lessons for a week. Not once had he turned up for a biology lesson, he was never in the library, and when he’d asked Molly, she hadn’t a clue either. He hadn’t really expected to miss the guy. Biology was suddenly more boring than it had ever been, Sherlock’s empty chair being a constant reminder of how easy it’d be to just stop turning up as the work got more intense. Nobody else seemed to have noticed however and, if they had, they didn’t seem to care. Bar a call to reception from Sherlock’s brother a week previously, it was as if he’d dropped from the face of the earth.

He couldn’t help but assume the worst had happened, a worry furthered when, after the final bell rung that Friday and he was collecting his rugby gear from his locker, Anderson appeared at his elbow. He‘d been trying to avoid them coming into any contact at all but, by the resolved look on Anderson’s face, he'd clearly been the only one.

“John,” he stated, “What’d I say about getting involved?”

“Fuck off,” John spat, trying to move past him.

Anderson, clearly panicked as he’d failed to make the threatening impression he’d been going for, placed a hand on John’s chest to stop him, “Well, you ignored me didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes,” Anderson insisted, “you did. You were asking after him today at the office.”

“Oh for god's sake,” John snapped, shoving Anderson’s hand away, “What are you going to do about it? Kick my head in?”

The face Anderson pulled was priceless, first glancing to the rugby gear John was holding, and then grimacing like he’d just had a bucket of ice water upended over his greasy head. He gathered himself and went to keep talking, but John stopped him with a sharp poke to the chest.

“Leave me alone, leave _him_ alone, and _fuck off_.”

Not giving Anderson a spare second, he gave a hard shove to the taller teen’s chest which sent him stumbling as John stalked away, fuming. He was going to be late for practice but he didn’t really care, if anything he was glad for a few minutes to calm down. The fact that Anderson had been watching him, following him, to make sure he wasn’t getting involved was just unbelievable. He just hoped he didn’t know where Sherlock was either, not wanting his temper to have gotten Sherlock into any trouble.

-

For the third Saturday in a row since he’d met Sherlock, John was heading into work a few hours early, still making up for the time spent in that alleyway. His boss hadn’t been too happy, but when he’d explained the situation, she’d let it go on the condition he made up for the lost time. He wasn’t too happy about being out so early, the air cold and sun obscured by patchy grey clouds threatening a storm. John pulled his coat tighter at the thought and walked a bit faster. Finally stepping into the little cafe to the soft chime of the bell, grateful as the warm air hit him, hurried footsteps came from the corridor behind the counter.

“Good morning, love,” Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at him, beginning to stack some mugs onto the counter as he removed his coat, “Give me a hand with these will you? How was college?”

They chatted happily for about half an hour, pottering about the cafe doing menial tasks in the absence of customers until the place was spotless and lovingly organised. They got along incredibly well- she’d always been the nicest of people to work for- so when she asked if he would watch the place on his own for a bit whilst she went out to pick up new crockery, John agreed gladly. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before bustling back to her flat, and then waved through the café window as she left. John was perfectly happy to look after the café, he still had that biology project to finish, and it wasn’t particularly busy today.

He worked quietly for the next hour or so, stopping occasionally when a customer would appear out of the now torrential downpour outside. After a while, at about 12 o’clock, the door burst open to reveal some familiar faces. Every other week without fail the same small group of girls would turn up, order an obscene amount of coffee, and stay until the cafe closed. He knew a few of their names, but only really spoke with two of them; Mary and her friend Sally, both his age and attending the private girls college near his house. He didn’t really know the other four or so, but they all knew him and he couldn’t help but feel at a slight disadvantage. He waved a quick hello as they took their seats.

“Afternoon,” Sally said, not ordering as John had already set about making their usuals, “Haven’t seen you in a bit, you alright? Weren't in last time we were.”

“Yeah, fine, just-” he cut himself off before he could ramble about what had happened, “-took a wrong turn.”

“Wrong turn?” Mary smirked, “And how long have you been working here exactly?”

John grinned, passing her her drink. He’d always gotten along best with her, the dry sense of humour they shared always made work a little less dull.

The three of them chatted idly for a half hour or so, the girls lazily pointing out mistakes in his college work and bickering amongst themselves over who was better off with work experience. Sally seemed to win out, slamming her empty mug onto the counter and waving a hand in Mary’s face with a smug grin.

“No, no, doesn’t matter if it’s at a GP, being a receptionist _anywhere_ is just shite,” she grinned as Mary grimaced around her coffee.

Mary just shook her head at the counter, rolling her eyes for John’s amusement. If either of them were going to continue their warm mocking they were interrupted, at a sudden soft strain of music from the flat above. The customers quietened for a few seconds before their chatter started back up again, but John and Mary continued to listen in.

“What the hell is that?” Sally grumbled, “Sounds-”

“-amazing,” Mary stated firmly before Sally’s insult could continue.

Sally glared at her friend, mumbling into her new coffee, and John had to bite back a smirk.

“Shall I ask them to stop?” he asked Sally, already standing to go, “I’ll tell them my customers have no appreciation for the arts.”

Mary snorted into her drink as Sally stuck a middle finger up at him. Grinning, John made his way into the corridor, following the music up the stairs. Whatever Sally had against it, he didn’t understand. It was solemnly beautiful, an obvious skill behind the instrument he could only envy. It was rare he went near any of the flats, only to ferry things between Mrs Hudson’s and the cafe, so as he begun the short walk upstairs he began to fret. Dust was caked onto the stairs like another carpet, giving the impression the whole place was deserted, swirling around him at every movement and making him sneeze. The music suddenly came to a halt and John froze. For a second or so it was silent, the only noise being his own breathing, before the door he couldn’t see slammed against a wall and the occupant of the flat skittering around the turn in the stairs to face him, the offending violin wielded loosely in one hand and clattering off the wall. John tripped back a few steps in a panic, but stopped short of fleeing back to the cafe as he recognised the person facing him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, slumping to sit on the stairs above him, “Are you following me?”

John grinned in relief.

“No, just… fancy seeing you here.”

It was a weak statement, but it seemed to bring a little light into Sherlock’s eyes. Even in the low green light cast from the windows, something on his face caught John’s eye. He moved onto the next step.

“I figured I’d see you at some point,” Sherlock grumbled, eyeing his movement strangely and swinging the violin carelessly into his lap.

John let out a slight laugh, a half second before he realised the mark was a blotchy bruise stretched largely just below his left eye. He fought to keep his smile consistent, but Sherlock's face dropped, just as he imagined his own had.

“Of course you did. I’m surprised you haven’t told me why I’m up here.”

It was meant as a joke, but Sherlock replied quickly, “Your customers dislike like my violin playing and you came to ask me to shut up.”

“That’s… exactly it,” he replied, “How do you do that? Really, how?”

Sherlock laughed hollowly, idly swinging the violin again so the varnish caught in the light.

“Well, what else would it be?”

“It’s very impressive,” John replied immediately, not wanting to lose the decent tone they’d kept, “That and the violin.”

If he didn't know any better he’d say this threw Sherlock slightly, his feet shuffling on the stairs and a hand fluttering against the strings of the instrument. It was the demeanour of someone who’d never received enough compliments to know how to deal with them. Why this was the case, he had no clue. In the quiet they heard the muffled sounds of chairs scraping back and the cafe bell as the girls left, and Sherlock drew in on himself as if it were his doing. It struck him with an idea.

“Hey, why don’t you come down to the cafe and have a coffee? I brought my college stuff so it would give you a chance to catch up on the notes you missed.”

He didn’t want to be to direct,-like asking why he hadn’t been at college, what he was doing in a flat on the other side of London, or who in hell’s name had given him that bruise- so going for college work was worth a try. Sherlock pondered it before nodding, standing and going back to the flat to get his stuff. John allowed himself a smile and ambled back down the stairs to the café.

* * *

When he had turned up at the flat with Gary, in the pouring rain and at nearly three o’clock in the morning, the last thing he’d been expecting was to gain a home. Mrs Hudson had been furious to say the least- she'd been expecting them a lot earlier, but Gary had insisted on stopping to buy him a really shit chinese in the name of charity. He’d been worried for Gary’s safety until she’d noticed him standing frazzled in the rain with nothing but a backpack, a bruise, and a borrowed cigarette to his name. In no time at all she’d shoved a hot mug of tea into his hands and put his coat in the dryer, vividly threatening his family to high heaven as Gary explained what little he knew. The flat itself was lovely, homely with it’s mismatched furniture and dusty clutter, but he’d felt so out of place. Not knowing that part of London very well he’d been knocked completely off kilter, but having spent the better part of that week exploring and getting to know his way around, it already felt more of a home than his real one.

Sitting in the café, though, staring into the depths of his coffee, some of that helplessness began to creep back. Having finished copying up the work he’d missed, the slight conversation had turned into a deafening silence. John was cleaning plates and whatever else behind the counter, occasionally glancing up when the silence became too unbearable. Finally John set down whatever he was cleaning and sighed.

“So...” Sherlock froze, but John soldiered on, “What are you doing here? Flat was empty last week.”

“...Fancied a change of scenery,” Sherlock grinned a little too widely to disguise his nerves, twiddling with a packet of sugar on the counter, “I don’t plan on staying long, just until Mycroft can find me somewhere else to live.”

John thought this over before nodding, continuing with his cleaning. He’d barely let out the breath he’d been holding before John _ruined it._

“Won’t your parents be worried?”

He was torn between immediately retreating to his flat, where he could curl up and ignore the issue forever like he wanted, or spilling every detail like he really needed to. Clearly neither were an option.

“John,” he smirked after a minute, hunching back over his coffee, “I know you’re not that stupid.”

“Sherlock, that’s awful,” John snapped, “Not- less the stupid thing, the parents thing, it’s _awful_.”

“Yes?”

It wasn’t a question.

John stared dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly agape. Whatever distress he was going through was… irritating.

“But it doesn’t matter-”

“Yes it does!”

“No,” Sherlock stated strongly, holding up a placating hand, but doing nothing to change John’s expression, “It doesn’t. What’s important is what I’ve missed. Anything interesting happen?”

John slowly set the plate he was holding onto the counter with a quiet clink, eyebrow raised. It was clear he didn’t want to let this go, but Sherlock mirroring his raised eyebrow was enough for him to lay off. For now at least.

“What, like gossip?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Other than Anderson being a twat, nothing much,” John shrugged, “Oh, and Seb Wilkes apparently shagged-”

“Christ, what’d Anderson do?” Sherlock droned, “ _Please_ tell me someone knocked him out, that’d be wonderful.”

Surprisingly, John laughed, “No, god no, but wish I had. Only gave him a shove. _And_ -” John continued with a grin before Sherlock could speak, “Before you ask- _or_ tell me- why, he was being a right dick about you and, you know, you weren’t about to defend yourself.”

His eyes had kept flickering to the horribly visible bruise as he spoke, no way of knowing who put it there, but a quiet determination glowing behind his eyes made it clear he was going to try and stop it happening again. It was uncomfortable as Sherlock willed away a blush. He made a note to better hide every injury from then on.

“Oh,” he managed to croak, irritated as John grinned, “Well, uh… thank you.”

John gave an earnest ‘no problem’, going back to his cleaning with a content look, and finally leaving Sherlock to his coffee in peace. But that wasn’t what he wanted anymore. If John was thinking about him in his absence- even just because of a fleeting mention from Anderson- then… well, he didn’t really know, if he was being truthful. This was new.

But he was definitely worth talking to.

“So...” Sherlock began, disappointed when the rest of the sentence failed to materialise out of thin air like he’d hoped, “Um... how long have you been working here?”

“Two years,” John replied immediately, grinning again and not faltering when he very clearly saw Sherlocks discomfort, mercifully taking control of the conversation, “Your flat’s been empty the whole time though- no idea why. Is it that awful?”

Sherlock slumped slightly in relief against the counter, launching into a feverish defence of his flat, and was relieved to see a little of the tension in Johns frame ease away. The afternoon drifted away quickly as they chatted, about more college gossip, uni goals and every other menial topic imaginable, comfortable in the cafe as they had never been in class. When Mrs Hudson got back a while later, she only waved through the window before bustling to her flat, leaving them to it. Only as it neared 4 o’clock, closing threatening to break their careful chatting, did Sherlock begin to fret again. John was polishing the coffee machine, the apparent last step before locking up for the day, when Sherlock pushed his stool back to stand.

“Did you want to come up for some tea?” he asked with a false bravado, overtly awkward as he couldn’t decide whether to lean on the counter or the back of his stool, settling for neither and swaying stupidly where he stood. If John wasn’t there he definitely would have very loudly chastised himself for being  _such  an idiot_ , “We could finish that biology project you were working on before you interrupted me earlier.”

John’s eyebrows drew together slightly, signifying a quiet ‘no’ before he could actually reply.

“Or not, that’s also fine,” Sherlock hastened to add.

“No, no, I’d like to,” John chuckled, “But said I’d meet Greg after work.”

He said the name like he was supposed to know who that was, and Sherlock nodded too many times for it to look natural, causing another wave at irritance at himself. Why he was acting like such a moron, he had no clue.

“Don’t suppose you’d want to go with to the pub?” John asked, despite clearly knowing the answer.

“God no,” Sherlock grimaced.

John finished polishing the machine with a flourish, gave him a disappointed smile, and called to Mrs Hudson to lock up before shrugging on his coat. With their meeting drawing to such a disappointing close, he had the strange compulsion to make John laugh again before he left.

“John?” Sherlock said, stopping John from where he was putting his scarf on, “Can I ask you a favour?”

“Sure, yeah?” he took a small step closer, worry barely masked.

“Put some effort in and knock him out next time.”

It took John a few seconds longer than expected to realise who he was referring to, but the grin he garnered was worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment/kudos, i need the validation & then there'll be chapters released wayyyy quicker

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya!! So, this is a rewrite (sort of) of an older fic I wrote in 2013/2014 and never finished. It's still up so if you recognise it, cool!! I'm not stealing it!! I just regretted orphaning it and leaving it without a conclusion. I'm talking biggest regret of my young life- which is definitely an exaggeration, but it is genuinely a huge regret of mine. 
> 
> Because of when it was originally written some things are going to be HUGELY different, (Sherl's relationship with his parents, for example), but most is in line with the show. As much as an AU can be anyway.
> 
> If you haven't read the original, then please don't!! Do not subject yourself to that my friend!!  
> 1\. There's a hefty amount of change gone into this version so there's really no point.  
> 2\. It's a bloody monstrosity. No exaggeration there. A blight on my life and my literary credibility.
> 
> I really want to finish it this time around, so if I'm ever gone for more than 2 months, and hold me to this, *give me hell in the comments and on my tumblr (theapidae)*
> 
> That said, enjoy!! :D comments are widely appreciated and are likely to get the next chapters edited/written/posted a lot quicker!! And please leave kudos!! I crave validation!!


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